Belong Snippets
by alice.in.ink
Summary: Smallish oneshots that take place before, during, and after "Belong." Stories include various oneshots like when Peter had the house to himself, when Peter drew the eyes of the US government to him, and other fun snippets I dream up. Happily accepting any requests/suggestions you're interested in seeing! (Posting will be random-sorry, kids!)
1. How to Have the House to Yourself

_**This first little oneshot takes place about a month or so after**_ **Belong** _ **'s epilogue. Enjoy!**_

 **How to Have the House to Yourself**

At thirteen, Peter became the man of the house. It was a responsibility that was suddenly thrust upon him, and he heroically—

"Well, you'd hardly be the man of the house," Charles corrected him while Erik continued on chopping vegetables. "Your father and I will only be gone for the night. And Hank and Raven will still be here at the mansion with you."

Peter rolled his eyes and slumped against the island. "You're totally killing my Batman origin story here, man."

Erik threw his son a look from where he was sautéing stir fry. "That last thing your life needs is more drama, Pietro."

Peter gave him a knowing look and a point. "If that isn't dramatic foreshadowing, I don't know what is."

Charles smiled proudly at the fact that Peter recognized and applied literary terms out of his classroom.

Erik simply rolled his eyes and returned to preparing dinner.

So when the sun had set and Cherik had spieled their whole "rules of the house while we're gone" monologue, Peter envisioned his life as if it had been written as a comic book. And when Charles called him out from daydreaming about graphic novels, Peter smiled and ensured them that he was, in fact, the angelic child that had always wished and prayed for.

Cherik exchanged a look at that.

But they left all the same. Apparently, Charles was still bitter eight years later that they'd never truly celebrated his second doctorate degree. And with all of their enemies (mostly) vanquished, Erik felt comfortable leaving their teenage son home alone for an evening so they could celebrate together.

Peter grinned and looked around the silent mansion. He'd never had the mansion to himself before. Granted, he didn't really now either, since Raven and Hank were around here somewhere. But still.

So Peter found a piece of paper from Charles's study, a pen off the floor of his bedroom, and the bucket of red licorice Cherik had "hidden" in Erik's closet. Peter sat on the center of the kitchen island and began scrawling a to-do list, all while gnawing on licorice after licorice. The list read:

 _1\. Write Batman origin story—Peter style._

Peter checked that off.

 _2\. Dramatically deliver this story to whoever will listen._

Peter grinned and added a few more items to his list. He then rolled the pen away, making it topple off the counter to the floor. Peter looked at his list in satisfaction and then took off to fulfill it.

Peter dashed down to the basement, figuring it'd be easier to find one half of (Rank or Haven. Peter was still debating) than the other.

Sure enough, Nerd McCoy was intently staring at a machine on his desk and delicately adjusting wires with tweezers.

Peter sped in front of Hank, smiled, and opened his mouth to deliver the monologue.

"Stop," Hank said, holding up a finger but never taking his eyes off his work. "Before you do whatever you decided to do, know that I am adjusting the connective fueling on a highly powerful weapon."

Peter wrinkled his nose at that. "Well, will we die if I mess with it?"

"Probably."

Hmm. Tempting. But Peter cleared his throat and continued on with his checklist. "Lucky for you, I've come here to hold you as my captive audience. All you have to do is sit back and listen to brilliance."

Hank glanced up doubtfully before refocusing on his work. "Make it fast."

Peter grinned; he could do fast. "Peter Lehnsherr was happy. He was living his dream: a crazy awesome mansion to live in, pretty OK parental guardians, and a love for Twinkies that could never be tainted. Even better—he had kickass superpowers."

"When did you become baby Hamlet?" Raven asked, striding into the room. In her blonde form, she looked the two over before plopping her butt up onto Hank's worktable. Hank clenched the tweezers and froze while the table was jostled, his eyes focused fearfully on the reactive weapon. He relaxed when the table settled without incident.

"This isn't Hamlet," Peter disputed in an insulted voice. "This is a Peter original. And you came just in time; I was just starting out on my origin story."

Raven raised an eyebrow and looked to Hank. Hank shrugged and carefully separated wires with his tweezers.

Peter cleared his throat. "So, as I was saying, Peter Lehnsherr was happy, and… He was great and the rest doesn't matter because he had superpowers. Yes, he could run very, very, very, very, very…"

Raven leaned forwards and pressed a kiss to Hank's cheek. And then his jaw. And then his chin. And then his throat. And then the side of his neck.

"Very fast. **_UNTIL!_** "

Hank jumped and then glared hard at the dangerous machinery. Raven simply kept on kissing his neck.

"The day it all changed," Peter continued with a dark smile. "The day his parental guardians— _died!_ " He paused for dramatic tension. Neither Hank nor Raven looked up from their tasks. "Peter became the man of the house. It was a responsibility that was suddenly thrust upon him, and he heroically had no choice but to accept it."

Raven took her lips off of Hank's neck to turn and give Peter a dead stare. "This monologue better be wrapping itself up."

Peter didn't acknowledge the critic, but he cut to the chase. "So then, Peter used his powers to run the house, and he did other cool stuff, and it was awesome. The end." He bowed low.

No one applauded.

Peter titled his head up to see Raven kissing Hank and Hank setting his tweezers down to kiss her back.

Ugh. Neither were true patrons of the arts. Stiffly, Peter erected himself and sped out of the basement. He fished his list out of his pocket and ticked off the second item. He looked to the third:

 _3\. Sugar run._

Peter grinned, snapped his goggles over his eyes, and took off for 7/11. He figured he had about twenty minutes before Rank/Haven came to check that he was still alive and present.

Twenty minutes was a lifetime to Peter Lehnsherr. In that time, he was able to grab an entire grocery bag full of Twinkies and Ding Dongs, four extra-large slurpees (each of Peter's arms could hold two to his chest), and another full grocery bag of candy. All of it was paid for with Hank's (didn't-know-it-was-missing-yet) wallet, and then Peter hauled it all home.

Peter set his haul on the kitchen island and then checked off the third item on his to-do list. Which left the final fourth:

 _4\. Sugar high._

Peter smiled demonically. Ever since that one day in January when Peter had (barely) overdosed on sweets, he'd had his Hostess privileges revoked. And ever since Peter had inhaled that stack of candy necklaces from the county fair, Cherik had severely limited Peter's sugar intake. (Even though Peter repeatedly pled that he'd only tried swinging from the chandelier _once_.)

That should be considered child abuse, in Peter's opinion.

So Peter was making up for it. While guzzling down the second slurpee (he'd finished off the first one on the run over), he began tearing open wrapper after wrapper of Hostess sweets and candies. That way, when he was done with the slurpees, he'd be able to create a continuous stream of sugary sweets.

The cup made a hollow sound, and Peter started in on the third drink.

* * *

By the time Raven and Hank's escalated "kissing" had ended, it still took them a solid twenty minutes before they realized that they hadn't seen Peter in about an hour.

Raven rolled her eyes while Hank frantically shoved his pants back on. "Don't be such a worry wart. Peter's thirteen; he can take care of himself."

With his pants half zipped, Hank whirled on her with a punctuating chop of the hand. "It's Peter."

Raven grudgingly pulled her dress back on.

And by the time Raven and Hank stepped back onto the main level, they couldn't see Peter. That is, their eyes couldn't physically track the silver blur that seemed to be everywhere at once.

"He found sugar," Hank realized in a small, slightly terrified voice. "He ODed on sugar."

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOH!" Peter shrieked, his voice echoing all around the couple.

When Raven looked to Hank, Hank swallowed in fear. "His dad's gonna kill me. Charles is gonna kill me."

"OK, Erik might be a little flustered," Raven downplayed, "but Charles will be totally fine with all of this."

Even though the stream of silver continued wavering in front of their eyes, a loud crash sounded upstairs.

"Whoops!" Peter said all around them.

Hank's desperate eyes locked onto his girlfriend.

"OK, our only option is to make him burn all this crap off before his parents get back," Raven reasoned firmly.

Hank ran a distraught hand through his hair and nodded too many times.

"Peter!" Raven called out. "You wanna go run outside?"

"Nah, it's dark!" the echoing teen's voice answered.

"Oh, that's too bad," she pressed. "I was just thinking that it'd be cool to see how fast you could run if you weren't confined to these tight corners."

Peter appeared before them, vibrating intensely and smiling. "You're totally trying to play me, and it's totally working!" The teen burst away from them, and the door opened and closed within the same second.

Raven and Hank followed after him.

It took a solid hour and a half for the teen to burn through all of his energy. But after Hank's encouragement to move faster and Raven's dares to run up trees and across the pond, Peter had managed to wear himself out.

He toppled into the house with a dazed grin and trashed sneakers.

"That was awesome," Peter mumbled as he walking into the sitting room and collapsed back onto the couch. He kicked what was left of his shoes onto the floor and closed his eyes in content tiredness.

"Yeah, let's maybe wait until your dad's around the next time you try to put yourself in a sugar coma, alright?" Hank suggested with a nervous smile.

Peter kept his eyes closed as he grunted an acknowledgement.

"Kid's out," Raven said aloud and pulled up Hank's wrist to look at his watch. "And it's only eleven. Let's go celebrate with a bottle of champagne."

Hank rose his eyebrows in agreement.

Raven grabbed onto the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer to clarify, "And only a bottle of champagne."

Hank hesitated with a smile. "I'm assuming you mean naked, but—"

Raven gripped the back of his head and shoved his mouth down to hers. She hiked her legs around his waist, and Hank easily carried her to the kitchen for champagne and then their bedroom to spend the night.

* * *

Keys noisily clattered onto the porch step.

" _Shh!_ " Charles advised with a curved finger to his smiling lips.

Erik grinned and floundered to pick the keys back up. He searched through them, but—"They're all the same!"

Charles stabbed his finger into them. "That's the one."

Erik wasn't sure which one it was because the man was pointing at all of them.

"Wait," Charles said with suddenly sober eyes as he grabbed Erik's arms. "You're a mutant, Erik. You have _powers_."

Erik gave a slow blink. "Well, you don't because you think have a leg is cooler than mind control, um… things."

Charles let go of Erik's arms to haphazardly wave around his hands. "Your powers! The metal and the door can unlock it!"

Erik's eyes widened at the clarity of that idea. He turned to the door and dashed a hand through the air.

The door unlocked and opened.

The two wobbled inside, snickering like children.

Charles turned and pointed down the hall. "Take me to bed, Erik."

"Wait," Erik said. "We wanted to go for something in the kitchen."

"Bah!" Charles threw a hand into the air. "Who cares!"

But Erik led the way to Expedition: Kitchen on wobbly legs. Charles groaned and followed.

Once there, Erik began looking around, not sure what he was supposed to be doing there. Something about medicine and water and probably tomorrow, but that was all the way in tomorrow.

"Ah!" Charles dropped to the floor so suddenly that Erik thought he'd fallen. But then Charles popped back up with fretting face and a pen in his hands. "It's a _pen_! It was _alone_ on the _ground_ by _itself_!"

But Erik was staring at the many, many candy bar and Hostess wrappers littering the island. He grabbed fistfuls of them and held them up in confusion. "I ate a candy bar?"

Charles used the pen to point to all of the wrappers in astonishment. "You did!"

Erik began pulling armfuls of the wrappers towards him, still confused. "How did I eat so many?"

Charles leaned against the counter as the room swayed. "You're extro'nary."

Erik blinked at all of the wrappers.

Charles stumbled out of the kitchen and then called out, "Oh, Erik! Look 't'im!"

Erik wobbled after him until the two were in the sitting room.

"He's _asleep_!" Charles pointed to Peter's sleeping form as if it was the most astounding thing in the world.

Erik's knees sank to the carpet, and he held up the tattered remains of a shoe. "I just bought these…?"

Charles followed suit and laid down on the carpet. "You keep finding rubbish, and I found _Peter_."

Erik looked at their son and dropped the shoe. He stared around in confusion. "'s this Pietro's room?"

"Must be," Charles answered sleepily, closing his eyes.

Erik reached out and held the teen's jean-clad leg. His face scrunched as tears overwhelmed him. "He's so good."

"I'm a big fan of his work," Charles slowly replied, keeping his eyes closed.

Erik looked to Charles in confusion, saw how he'd sprawled himself, and decided to follow suit.

Once Erik was lying on the floor beside him, Charles reached up and patted Erik's cheek sloppily and lovingly. "You're my favorite Erik out of _all_ the Eriks."

Erik grunted.

"And I…" Charles yawned. "Sleep."

"Mmm."

* * *

When Peter awoke in the morning, his head was hurting. And he wasn't in his bed. He was on the couch…?

Right. Because sugar. It was then and there that Peter decided maybe he shouldn't ever be the man of the house.

As he grunted and went to flip over, he realized something was tethering his ankle. He looked down and realized it was a hand. Peter followed the arm to see his father and Charles side-by-side, sprawled across the carpet. Both sported disheveled hair, sloppy clothes, and gaping mouths.

With a fond smile, Peter gently moved his dad's hand off the couch to lay across Charles's chest.

Yeah, the man of the house could eat it, Peter realized. And Batman probably could too. Because Peter didn't need an origin story or to be burdened under the responsibilities of adulthood.

He was perfectly happy exactly where he was.


	2. How to Apologize

**Hello! Here is another chapter for you all—this takes place a few years after _Belong_ 's epilogue.**

 **How to Apologize**

Peter was in the middle of an amazing game of pinball. In fact, he was doing the best he had ever done, including that time he was trying to impress Jubilee with his amazingly amazing powers.

Luckily, God decided to favor Peter that day. Because in the midst of his incredible game, Peter glanced up—and saw his father marching down the hall. Erik had a furious scowl, clenched fists (with a newspaper in one), and murderous eyes honed in on Peter.

Peter was no idiot; he knew trouble when he saw it. So rather than face whatever that furious man had in store for him, Peter snapped his goggles over his wide eyes, gulped, and sprinted off through the mansion.

However, the next thing Peter knew, he was sitting in an armchair. A plush, red armchair. In Charles's study. With Charles motionlessly waiting behind his desk.

Charles's patiently sat, his fingers steepled and his elbows propped on the wooden desk. His eyes were dark and predatory.

Peter went to throw himself out of the room, but his feet refused to listen to his will. He was stuck in the chair.

"Your father and I would like a word with you," Charles stated simply.

Peter tried to keep a cool demeanor. As if he totally wanted to be in that chair and was in no way stapled to it. "Oh? Want some vacation destination ideas? Because I've been thinking Fiji, personally."

In reality, Peter's mind whirled, trying really hard to think of what could have made his parents so testy.

The door slammed open, and Erik's towering form marched through the doorway.

"In my defense," Peter quickly pled at the sight of his father's glare, "I was drugged, and I didn't know what was happening."

Erik towered over his son, his stiff hand clenching around the newspaper.

"I highly doubt you were incoherently drugged if you were able to do so well in this competition," Charles commented dryly.

Peter glanced at the newspaper with a confused frown. The title screamed _CHEATER OR WINNER? MUTANT OUTRUNS OLYMPIC FINALISTS_.

Oh. That. Peter settled back into his chair with a slight smirk.

Erik whacked the newspaper across the top of his son's head. "Of all the idiotic reasons to expose yourself and your powers—"

"I was bored!" Peter protested in a whine.

Erik's glower was bloodcurdling. Peter shrank slightly away.

"Peter, you do understand that this was an unfair match to begin with," Charles checked with a raised eyebrow.

Peter gave him a look. "No way. We all ran with our God-given abilities; mine just freaking rock."

Erik slapped the paper back over Peter's head. "Your stupidity has drawn the eyes of government officials! I doubt I need to remind you of the harm that they can cause."

Images of General Stryker swirled through the teen's mind. Peter paled.

Charles threw Erik a warning look and then spoke to Peter. "There's talk of prohibiting mutants from any further competitions."

Peter's lost gaze snapped back to attention at that. "Like, the Olympics?"

Charles gave a nod. "The Olympics. Professional sports teams. High school sports."

Peter's heart turned thick as he thought about all the people impacted by his recklessness. "Oh…"

"How could you be so foolish?" Erik demanded out of fear for his child. "For something so unimportant—"

"I'm sorry!" Peter exclaimed, his head bowed. "I was just running, and I saw a sign for a race, and I thought it'd be funny—"

"What about this is _funny_?!" Erik demanded.

"Erik," Charles cautioned with that look.

A tear trickled down Peter's cheek and off his nose. "I didn't know it'd mess things up." He pushed the tear away harshly.

Charles rolled himself out from his desk and over to Peter. "We know, Peter. It wasn't our intention to make you feel guilty; we—"

"But you need to understand the severity of your actions, Pietro," Erik finished crisply.

Charles brought that look back to his partner, this time more sharply. Erik continued to ignore it.

"I'm sorry," Peter said sadly.

Charles placed a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder. "It's alright, Peter. The aftershocks of this event were obviously not intended. But in the future—"

"You'll be doing additional chores around the mansion," Erik cut his partner off again. He strode over towards the window, keeping his arms crossed and his stern gaze on the teen. "Meanwhile, Charles and I will attempt to deal with the aftermath of this mess."

Peter's head bowed meekly lower as he nodded. "OK."

Charles's gaze had turned piercing on Erik.

"You may start by doing any and all dishes left in the kitchen sink," Erik stated, oblivious to the telepath.

Peter stood, nodded obediently, and disappeared with a final "Sorry."

The second the door closed, Erik looked over to Charles. "What?"

Charles was fuming. "That was rather unnecessary, Erik."

Erik gave him a confused look and wandered towards the bookshelf. "Punishing Pietro?"

"Yes!"

Erik fished out a tumbler and a bottle of scotch. "He needs to understand that idiocy has consequences, Charles."

"Yes, I agree!" Charles shot back. "However, if he obviously, wholeheartedly regrets his mistake, I don't believe it's necessary to force him into additional chores!"

Erik took a swig of his poured glass of alcohol. "So you don't believe our son deserves a punishment? He's brought the eyes of the government upon us, Charles—"

" _I understand_ ," Charles interjected through gritted teeth, "what Peter has done. But so does Peter. And the entire purpose of a punishment is to reinforce a deterrent of behavior."

"And now it won't happen again," Erik stated plainly.

Charles nearly wanted to throttle the man. "Fine, Erik. Even though Peter clearly regrets his mistake, please, punish him further. I'd hate for your pride to be damaged." And with that, he shoved his joystick forwards and exited the study.

Erik stood at the bookshelf with an empty tumbler and a brooding gaze.

* * *

Two days passed, and Charles only spoke to Erik in short, crisp statements.

Two days passed, and Peter continued to obedient fulfill any chore Erik demanded of him.

Two days passed, and Erik finally began to realize he may have been wrong.

In the yard, children were taking advantage of the Saturday afternoon. Groups of friends lounged on the grass, a couple took turns pretending to push each other into the chilly pond water, and a few mutants laughing as they played with their abilities.

Peter was taking advantage of the Saturday afternoon, but he was not enjoying himself like his peers. He was kneeling in the garden bed lining the side of the house, using his powers to weed and weed and weed and weed. His dad had asked, so Peter did.

And when Erik marched outside to check on the progress, it finally hit him.

Peter was bent over the weeds, his hands flying shards of green leaves into a tidy pile. But his face was despondent. He had bags under his eyes. He had a permanent frown on his face.

Originally, Erik had assumed this to be a side effect of earning a punishment. But now, as Erik studied his son, he realized that this stretched deeper.

"Pietro," Erik called softly.

The teen paused and looked up at his father with miserable eyes.

Erik's heart broke at the sight. "Your punishment is over, son. You can stop."

Peter turned back to the garden and shrugged. "It's OK. It's fair." He resumed tugging out the weeds.

Erik knelt down on the dirt, ruining his tan dress pants. He grabbed his son's shoulder, making the teen stop and turn towards him. "Pietro, this isn't fair. And I'm sorry that I was too blinded to see that." And too deaf to hear it from Charles.

Peter was confused, but he sat back and stopped weeding.

 _Ask him about his feelings_ , Charles prompted Erik mentally.

Erik grimaced at the intrusion. And a way to phrase that request. "I… How are you?"

Peter was very confused now. His tired eyes squinted at nothing in particular. "Uh… fine…"

 _Prompt him_ , Charles encouraged.

"You haven't been sleeping," Erik observed, with a gesture to the teen's dark-rimmed eyes.

Peter frowned and looked down.

 _He feels guilty,_ Charles said. _Ask him—_

"If you would like to speak with Pietro, you may come talk with him yourself," Erik growled aloud.

Peter was giving his father a weird look. "Are you talking to Charles about me?"

Erik huffed out a breath and dragged his hand down his face. "We're worried about you, Pietro. And I realize that I was wrong to force you into a punishment that was undeserved."

Peter's frown returned. "It wasn't undeserved."

Charles's words about punishments filtered back through Erik's mind. "Yes, it was. And I'm sorry."

Peter looked to the ground.

 _Prompt him_ , Charles repeated.

Erik resisted the urge to sigh. "And if you would like to discuss anything, I'm here."

Peter looked up at that. "I… I didn't realize I'd hurt anybody, Dad."

Erik opened his mouth to refute that anyone had been injured.

 _Let him finish,_ Charles rebuked.

Peter heaved a shaky breath and fiddled with the leaves of a weed. "I thought it would be funny to watch the Olympians' faces when I showed them up. And, yeah, it was. But now all those people whose lives depend on competitions are gonna be out of jobs. And kids like me don't get to play sports anymore." His eyes were tearing up as he finally met his father's gaze. "And you and Charles have to deal with those government assholes, and what if they try to quarantine me again—"

Erik grabbed his son and enveloped him in a hug. At the contact, Peter heaved a sob and gripped him back.

"Shh," Erik soothed. "That'll never happen, Pietro. I'm sorry for ever giving you that impression."

"I just feel so bad," Peter cried. "Those mutants' lives suck because of me. And I don't want another government guy trying to drag me off—"

"Pietro," Erik cut him off sharply and pulled away to give him a better look. "Never worry about that. I will never allow it. Charles will never allow it. You're safe with us."

Peter swallowed through a thick throat and reigned in his sobs with a shaky breath.

Erik held his son firmly by the shoulders. "And you aren't responsible for the prejudice that reigns Homo sapiens, Pietro."

"But—"

"If it hadn't been your race," Erik assured him, "some other mutant would have prompted this conversation. It'd been a long time coming, son."

Peter's lips curled into a thin line as he mulled that over.

"Don't draw unnecessary attention again," Erik said, "but this isn't your fault, Pietro."

Peter's shoulders sagged as he felt the relief of that statement.

Erik pulled his son back into a hug and kissed the top of his silver head.

After a moment, Peter mumbled against his father's shirt, "Everyone's gonna think I'm a whimp. My dad's hugging me because I'm crying in the garden."

Erik's toothy grin resembled a shark. "These children wouldn't dare insult you."

Peter's watery eyes looked up at his father. "Yeah, because I'm the teacher's pet."

Erik feigned indifference. "I was implying that you possess the power to outshine the country's best athletes. But if you believe that your sole quality is impressive parents…" Erik shrugged, not denying it.

Peter rolled his eyes, grinned, and shoved himself off of his dad. "I can totally make you punch yourself, old man."

Erik's shark grin grew as the metal of Peter's jeans and jacket pulled the boy into a stand.

"Peter!" Jubilee called, running over. "Where've you been? We're about to play Frisbee, and I totally want you on our team."

Peter glanced at his kneeling father, confused that there wasn't a crowd to have witnessed that moment of weakness.

 _I ensured that your conversation remained private,_ Charles assure the Lehnsherrs.

"Come on!" Jubilee grabbed Peter's hand and began tugging him across the grass. "God, why do I have to drag the speed-demon into moving?"

As he watched his son be carted off, Erik pushed himself off the dirt. Sensing the mental link still in his mind, Erik walked into the mansion and followed it.

He followed it to his bedroom—their bedroom. And there, in the center of the large bed, Charles laid with his glasses on and a thick book in his hands.

The door shut behind Erik as Charles looked up.

"I'm sorry," Erik said, taking a step towards the bed.

"I know," Charles assured him calmly.

"You were right all along," Erik said, moving closer.

Charles smirked over his book. "I know."

Erik unbuttoned the top of his shirt when he reached the edge of the bed. "I've been an idiot."

Charles set down the book, interlocked his fingers behind his head, and grinned. "It's like you're my puppet, yet I haven't resorted to controlling your mind. Yet."

"I doubt mind control is necessary to bend me to your will," Erik said, his pupils growing wide as he undid the middle buttons.

Charles shrugged indifferently. "You're right. But perhaps a mental nudge would assist?" Charles's "mental nudge" involved an immediate flood of images and feelings to overwhelm Erik's mind.

Without another thought, Erik launched himself at the bed. And as Charles laughed, Erik shoved the book off the bed and locked his lips down onto his.

 **I've _loved_ your suggestions for future chapters. If you have any more in mind, send 'em my way!**


	3. How to Have a Very Merry Christmas

**(This chapter is rated T/T+ for swears. Sorry if that deters anyone!)**

 **How to Have a Very Merry Christmas**

 _ **December 21, 1970, Home**_

There were three days until Christmas. The mansion was blazing with decorations (spear-headed by Raven herself). The students had all gone home for the holidays. The massive tree displayed glittery lights and bobbles in the living room, right alongside the roaring fire. It was a perfect night for hot chocolate, grabbing a blanket, and cuddling up to those you hold dear.

"Oh, bugger off then!" Charles spat with a sloppy wave to the door. "If this life is too mediocre for the great _Erik Lehnsherr_ —"

"For the love of God— _I meant it as a compliment_ ," Erik ground out with a scowl.

Peter remained on the plush couch, watching his parents bicker as he tossed handful after handful of popcorn into his mouth.

"Yes, because everyone wants to be known as _mediocre_." Charles scrunched up his face and wobbled towards the fire.

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Charles, are you always this sensitive when you're drunk?" Peter asked innocently as he continued eating his popcorn.

"Only when that bastard provokes me!" Charles snapped with a backwards point to Erik.

"Pietro, go get your things," Erik said calmly. At the twin looks of alarm, Erik rolled his eyes. "We need to keep to our schedule if we're to be back before Christmas."

Charles scowled and went back to drunkenly stoking the fire with a poker.

"Ugh, I don't wanna go to Austria," Peter whined as he slammed his head back into the couch.

"Good, because we're going to the Ukraine," Erik responded with a superior look.

Peter rolled his eyes. "They're, like, the same."

Erik looked heavenwards and began cursing his son's education in Polish, all while calling for his metal suitcase to float down the hall.

"Can't I just stay with Charles?" Peter begged.

"I don't know, that might be too mediocre a life for you, Peter," Charles griped with another fierce stab to the fire.

Erik opened his mouth to refute that, huffed angrily instead, and turned to their son. "Fine. Stay with Charles, but you have to promise that you'll stay with Charles."

Peter grinned in triumph, but he couldn't help adding, "Yeah, as if I've never been left with Charles before."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "Then you know what happens if you cause trouble in my absence."

Peter's lips dropped the smile and formed a tight line.

"I'll be back in a few days," Erik vowed to Charles.

Charles gave a nod, but he didn't face his partner. "Have a bloody good trip."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Charles, don't be so melodramatic—"

"Oh, fuck off," Charles threw bitterly over his shoulder.

Peter's eyebrows rose as he grinned widely.

"Sorry, Peter," Charles slurred to the teen on the couch.

Erik ground his teeth but left it. He turned to give their son a goodbye when he caught Peter's look of glee. "If I hear you using that word, I will wash out your mouth with soap; I don't give a damn how old you think you are."

Peter quickly adopted his look of wide-eyed innocence. "But I'm always trying to be like my elders."

Erik lightly slapped the back of his son's head before kissing the top. "Be good, Pietro." He threw a look to Charles and added to Peter, "Keep an eye on him."

As Erik snatched his suitcase from the air and left, Peter's heart soared. He'd just been put in charge of an _adult_. Better yet, he'd just been put in charge of _Charles_. He was like a _dad_ now.

Charles took the last swig of his brandy and glared at the fire.

"Hey, Charles, do you wanna play chess?" Peter asked, keeping his tone light and encouraging, just as parents do with young children.

Charles cast him a confused look. "'Suppose. If you don't cheat."

Peter shot off the couch, grabbed his guardian's hand, and began tugging him down the hall. He was even courteous enough to slow his pace to where Charles was only almost running.

* * *

 _ **December 22, 1970**_

With Peter in his sole charge, Charles decided that it would be another good day to use the serum. Unfortunately, that did little to cushion the blow of his massive hangover.

With a throbbing head, Charles stiffly shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen.

"Like, a new helicopter or something," Peter explained with flailing hands. "Or maybe just cookies. He's all sentimental so he likes shit like that."

Charles shared shrewd looks with the resident couple at the kitchen table before moving to make a cup of coffee. "He is, however, not very appreciative of you swearing, Peter."

Peter jumped and spun around in a flash. "Charles! Wow. I didn't even see you there. But we weren't even talking about you, so it seems you're being a bit presumptuous." He grinned knowingly, putting his hands on his hips.

Charles lazily looked to the couple.

"He wants us to be nice to you since you and Magnets are fighting," Raven said with a stab to her pancake.

Peter nervously laughed. "No, I didn't."

"His exact words were, 'Be nice to the old guy. Give him treats and shit because he was really girly last night,'" Hank repeated evenly. He sipped his coffee.

Charles's gaze drifted back to the teen.

Peter's nervous laughter became sharper. "That doesn't sound like me."

Charles was faintly amused, but he turned to prepare his coffee so that Peter could stew. "Hank, Raven, would you mind giving us the room please?"

The couple exchanged a look and did as they were asked.

Peter looked between his guardian's back and the fleeing couple. "Oh, are you sure? I don't know if they were done with their food."

"We're done," Raven answered as she stepped out of the kitchen. Hank clapped Peter on the shoulder on his way out.

"Well, what a coincidence because so am I!" Peter forced a grin. "Good to see you, Charles. I hope—"

"I want to apologize, Peter," Charles declared as he stirred his mug.

Peter froze. "What?"

Charles smiled softly over his mug as he turned to face the teen. "I shouldn't have cursed in front of you last night. And I certainly should have never been so disrespectful to your father in front of you. That was very wrong of me, and I hope you can forgive me for it."

Peter blinked. "Oh. So… this isn't about me cussing and stuff?"

Charles grinned. "If you can overlook all that I have said, I believe I could do the same for you."

"OK." Peter smiled. "Does that mean—"

"No," Charles answered, still serenely smiling.

Peter's smile fell. "But I didn't even—"

"This does not give you permission to ever curse again," Charles finished for him.

Peter's mouth fell into a frown. "Not even the word I just said?"

"Ask your father," Charles responded simply.

" _Ugh_ ," Peter groaned. He dramatically, slowly began stomping out of the kitchen. "I'm gonna go run around."

"Stay in sight and off the pond, please," the Brit politely requested.

Peter gave him an insulted look. "I'm not gonna be stupid, Charles."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "With my lack of telepathy and your track record, I'd appreciate not having to look for a silver blur in the snow." Charles glanced out the window. "Speaking of which, please wear a coat."

Peter held out his silver-jacketed arms. "Done." He snapped his goggles on.

"A _winter_ coat," Charles clarified with a nod to the window. "It's much too cold out for that thin jacket."

Peter was insulted. "But this is my look!"

"Winter coat, Peter," Charles said and walked out of the room with his coffee in hand.

Peter scowled. Well. Charles's suggestions would always be considered, but Peter wasn't about to start taking fashion advice from the man in _cardigans_. (Besides, didn't Erik put Charles under _Peter's_ care? What did Mr. Cardigans know?)

Peter straightened his silver bomber jacket and sprinted out into the cold morning air.

* * *

 _ **December 23, 1970**_

"I'm going Christmas shopping," Raven declared as she poked her blonde head into Peter's room. "Need anything?"

Peter groggily poked his head out of his pillow and blinked at her. "Again?"

"I like to spoil you brats," she said briskly. "Do you want cold meds or what?"

Peter scrunched up his face, not knowing that his fever-warmed, rosy cheeks still gave him away. "I don't have a cold."

Raven raised a manicured eyebrow. "The only times you've ever slept longer than me is when you're sick or dying." She looked his bedhead over. "You better be sick. Erik will throw a hissy fit if you're dying."

"I'm not dyyyyyying," Peter whined as he flopped onto his back. At least, he didn't feel quite like death… yet.

"Shall I send Charles your way?" she challenged with a smirk.

Peter gave her a miserable look. "Everybody but you is the worst when I'm sick."

"You're flattering me for help, and it's working." She stepped into the room. "How about I keep your non-sickness quiet for today if you get better by tomorrow."

"What if I'm sick tomorrow?" Peter asked through a nasally voice.

"Ha! I'll pay you one hundred dollars if you can keep this one from Erik." With an amused smile, she gave him a wave and left the room.

Peter threw his comforter over his head and groaned.

Distantly, a telephone began to ring.

Realizing that it was probably his father, Peter threw back his covers and bolted to the phone in Charles's vacated study before anyone else could beat him to it.

As he grabbed the phone, the world tilted and swam. Peter grabbed onto the edge of the desk as his world worked to right itself.

"Hello?" Erik's voice snapped from the other end of the line. "Hank, you have to say words if you're answering the damn phone."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you aren't talking to Dr. McCoy. You're talking to the world's greatest receptionist and world armpit farter extraordinaire," Peter bragged smoothly.

A sigh came down the line. "How many times must I ask you to not pick-up the phone, Pietro?"

Peter hesitated with a squint. "Do you want me to hang up?"

"No. Tell the others that I'll be home tomorrow morning, as planned."

Meaning Peter had to get over this stupid, developing cold by tomorrow morning. "Uh… what time tomorrow?"

"Ten at the latest," Erik answered. "I'll be flying through the night."

"Oh, uh, OK. Cool."

"What's wrong with your voice?"

The unexpected question made Peter jump. "Uh, what?"

"Have you been crying?"

 _Ugh_. Peter rolled his eyes. " _No_. Hank was… just… chopping onions. He's making a soup or something."

There was the sound of a scuffle in the background of Erik's line.

"Are you fighting people?" Peter asked, brightening with interest. "Are you taking down bad guys and stuff?"

"No," Erik said in a suddenly clipped tone. "And do not start filling your head with your idiotic vigilante fantasies again."

Peter frowned. "I wasn't." Mostly.

The background scuffle grew louder.

"I have to go," Erik said. "Be good, Pietro."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Peter muttered, trying to better hear the background shouts. The line clipped silent before anything became distinguishable.

Peter side-eyed the phone as he hung it back up. "Buying presents in Ukraine my ass."

"Your dad is gonna whoop yours if he hears how much you've been cursing lately," Hank said as he stood in the doorway. He pointed to the phone. "Who was that?"

"Your girlfriend," Peter shot back. "She said you're ugly."

Hank gave him an unimpressed look. And then his eyes narrowed as he looked the teen over. "You feelin' OK?"

Peter's eyes widened. "Yep, I'm fine, I'm gonna go find something else to do, bye." He zipped past Hank with a small gust of wind.

Hank rolled his eyes in exasperation as he marched back down to his lab.

* * *

That night, Peter laid in his bed, feeling utterly miserable. He had only left the plush sanctuary to give Charles a brief "hi" in the hallway and eat some toast around midday. Now, he couldn't stomach the thought of food.

In fact, Peter was feeling like death warmed over.

" _I see bad times today._ " From his huddle of blankets, Peter blearily sang along with the Creedence Clearwater Revival classic. " _Don't go 'round tonight. It's bound to take your life. There's a bad moon on the rise…_ "

A knock came to the door, followed with Charles calling Peter's name over the music.

With a surge of panicked adrenaline, Peter chucked his pillow over at his record player, jolting the music into a stop. He launched himself out of bed, straightened his clothes and hair, and stood by the window. "Come in!"

Just as the door was opening, the surge of motion made Peter's vision swim. His knees felt weak. He quickly moved to lean his side against the wall, feigning casualness in the midst of vertigo.

Charles rolled into the room, his eyes taking in the mess of blankets and pillows, the needleless, rotating turntable, and the teen lounging against the wall. "I realized I've barely seen you today. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yep!" Peter hurriedly said and nodded. "I'm great. Just, ya know, catching up on all that sleep I never get and… listening to music. Teenager stuff." He offered a goofy grin.

Charles sagely watched the teen. A little too long, as Peter began fidget under the gaze.

"Yes, well," Charles finally said. "Hank mentioned that you spoke with your father."

"Oh, yeah, sorry." Peter suddenly remembered. "He said he's leaving tonight, should be here by ten tomorrow morning."

"Because flying alone through the night isn't at all dangerous," Charles muttered bitterly to himself. He looked up, suddenly remembering Peter, and his expression cleared of any cynicism. "That's wonderful news. Thank you."

Peter forced a pleasant smile.

"Hank and I were wondering if you'd care to join us for a game of Monopoly," Charles said warmly.

Peter's brain felt swollen, his muscles felt like they were sagging off of his bones, and he could probably throw up at any given moment. Still, he kept his smile in place and politely answered, "Oh, I'm OK. I'll just listen to music."

Charles's eyes returned to assessing the teen. "You don't want to play your favorite game?"

Peter's teeth were gritting behind his smile as he shrugged. "Just not in the mood, I guess."

Charles brought his knowing eyes to meet Peter's. "I can get you some medicine."

"Pfft." Peter rolled his eyes and gingerly crossed his arms. "I'm not sick."

"Then you wouldn't mind Hank taking your temperature," Charles challenged innocently.

Peter scowled and flopped face-first into his bed. "I'm _fine_."

Charles sighed in exasperation. "What're your symptoms, Peter?"

"Annoyed."

Charles grinned. "And?"

"That's it."

"I believe that you forgot to add 'stubborn.'"

Peter grunted into his mattress.

Charles leaned forwards and felt the back of Peter's neck. "You're a bit warm. I'll get you a fever reducer."

"Charles, I'm fiiiiiine," Peter grumpily said as he turned over onto his back.

"Yes, I can see that."

Peter turned his pleading look to his guardian. "I'll go right to sleep if you stop asking me questions."

Knowing that rest would be good for the ill teen, Charles gave a nod of compliance and rolled out of the room. "Goodnight, Peter. I'll check on you in the morning."

Peter waved him away as Charles shut the door. He shut his eyes and almost immediately drifted to sleep.

* * *

 _ **Christmas Eve, 1970**_

Unfortunately, that slumber didn't last long. After an hour, Peter's overactive body woke him. (Apparently, sitting in bed all day prevents the teen from sleeping at night.)

Unable to sleep, too sick to move, Peter stayed miserably awake in his bed the whole night through.

With a lethargic look to his alarm clock, Peter saw that it was just after ten in the morning.

"Peter?" Charles gave a knock to the bedroom door before slowly pushing it open.

With bloodshot eyes, Peter didn't move from his position under the mountains of blankets. He remained on his side, watching as the telepath entered the room.

Charles looked him over in slight alarm. "How're you feeling, Peter?" He rolled towards Peter and placed his hand to the teen's forehead. He withdrew quickly with a look of worry.

"Dead," Peter mumbled.

"How long have you been feeling this way?" Charles asked.

Under the blankets, Peter shrugged.

Charles gave him a look, brought his fingers to his temple, and gently sifted through Peter's immediate past. After a moment, he grimaced and dropped the fingers. It took a few seconds to control his breathing so that he wouldn't vomit, but when he did, he leveled Peter with an unhappy look. "You didn't wear your winter coat."

"Yeah," Peter mumbled lamely.

"And you didn't change out of your sopping wet clothes when you came in." Charles scowled.

"Yeah."

"And you fell asleep in them."

"Yeah."

Charles let out a harsh sigh through his nose as he closed his eyes. "That was irresponsible and foolish. This would have been all avoidable if you had just listened to me."

"I know. I'm stupid."

Charles looked at those tired, half-lidded eyes and relaxed. "You're not stupid, despite your thoughtless moments. Let's not worry about it now; just rest."

Peter barely nodded. "Is my dad here?"

"Not yet."

Peter frowned. "He said he'd be back by ten."

"He must've had a late start," Charles assured the teen as his stomach dropped. He glanced to the window behind Peter to see the blizzardy storm rage on.

"I'll get you a fever reducer," Charles changed the subject as he rolled out of the room.

Meanwhile downstairs, the phone line began to ring. Keeping his eyes focused on his microscope's slides, Hank blindly reached for the phone at the end of his desk and answered. "Xavier's School for—"

"Save it," Erik snapped. "Do you know how to realign the navigation system on the jet?"

Hank was insulted. "Well, yeah. I built the thing. What's wrong with it?"

There was a pause. "I hit a duck."

Hank reeled away from his microscope. "A _duck_ screwed up my jet?"

"It was a large duck."

"I knew I should've gone with you," Hank muttered. "You don't ditch the pilot and creator of—"

"How do I realign the navigation system, McCoy?"

With a sigh, Dr. Hank McCoy put the phone on speaker, returned to his microscope, and verbally walked Erik through realigning the navigation.

"Any other duck-related damage I should know about?" Hank jabbed, zooming in on a section of the slide.

Erik ignored him. "Tell the others that I'll be home in five hours."

"Five hours? How late of a start did you get?"

"I was busy," Erik defended bitterly. "And had faulty navigation."

Hank rolled his eyes. _A duck!_

"Hank!" Charles called as he rolled into the lab. "Have you seen the fever reducers?"

Hank stiffened as the room went silent.

Charles gave his friend a confused look before his eyes drifted to the off-the-hook phone.

"Who has a fever?" Erik demanded crisply from the phone.

"Uh," Hank floundered, "Raven was—"

"Peter does," Charles said, giving Hank an unimpressed look.

"How bad is it?" Erik's tone grew tighter.

"It's being handled," Charles responded. "After a fever reducer—"

A crash of metal had Hank looking up and Charles pivoting in his chair.

Painfully, Peter pushed himself off the floor of the connected med bay. Medical equipment was scattered around him, having been knocked over during his crashed landing.

Hank and Charles hurried over.

" _What was that?_ " Erik demanded.

Peter made it to his feet, but the room swayed. He leaned onto a med bay bed, trying to make sense of his swirling vision, Charles calling his name, and his dad's unhappy voice. "Is that my dad?"

"Just lie down," Hank instructed the teen as he guided him onto the bed. Peter sluggishly complied.

" _Tell me what's happening, dammit!_ " Erik shouted from the phone.

"Hank, assist him," Charles ordered with a nod to Peter. His request was unnecessary—the good doctor was already checking the teen over.

Charles rolled over to the phone, took it off speaker, and answered, "Peter had a bit of a crash landing. I think his speed, while sick—"

" _Is he hurt?_ "

Charles looked to Hank; Hank gave a thumbs up to Charles. Charles breathed a sigh of relief. "No, thank the Heavens."

" _Scheisse_ ," Erik spat.

Hank swiped a thermometer from out of Peter's mouth and called over, "103!"

In a pained voice, Charles repeated the reading into the phone.

"Well, fucking do something!" Erik harshly demanded.

"Of course we bloody well are, Erik!" Charles shouted back.

There was a tense brief silence, the only sound being Hank arranging medicine for Peter.

"I'm sorry," Erik muttered quietly.

Charles gave a nod, feeling that this exact conversation was all too familiar. "As am I. About this situation and… I'm sorry for what I said the night you left—"

"I understand," Erik murmured back. "We both said words we didn't mean."

Charles's mind whirled to analyze that confession.

"When will Dad get here?" Peter weakly asked, shivering on the bed.

Charles picked up the phone's cradle and brought it to the teen. "Your son would like a word," he said into the receiver before handing it off to Peter.

As Hank finished hanging Peter's IV, he exchanged a look with the telepath.

"Are you dead?" Peter asked lazily as he tucked the handset under his head.

"I ought to be asking you that," Erik responded, his tone both tense and relieved.

"'m OK," Peter mumbled. He rubbed his dry eyes. He overheard as Hank and Charles discussed ice baths. Peter shivered at the thought.

"How long have you been feeling this way, son?" Erik inquired.

"I dunno," Peter muttered. "Like, a day."

There was a pause. "You were sick when I spoke with you yesterday?"

"Kinda," Peter answered lamely.

"Christ. Did Charles know?"

"Kinda…"

There was another tense pause. "Is it a cold? The flu?"

Peter glanced at the conversing telepath, knowing he'd be ratted out eventually. "I dunno. Ask the doctor guy."

"Put him on please."

"When are you coming home? Did you fight idiots?"

"Put Hank on please."

With a defeated huff, Peter pushed the phone towards the doctor. Hank took it, exchanged a few words, and then handed it off to Charles. Peter could only pout and feel increasingly miserable as Charles cast him a look every now and then.

After a few minutes, the handset reappeared beside Peter's head. Charles offered him a gentle smile and instructed, "He wants to talk, but try to sleep soon."

Peter pushed the phone back under his head. "Hi."

"A _coat_ , Pietro?" Erik demanded. "Every time you put your life in danger, it's because you did something so idiotic that—"

Charles snatched the phone back. " _Erik_." There was a pause as Erik spoke. Charles then slid the phone back under Peter's ear.

"Yeah, I'm stupid," Peter muttered, cursing his silver-jacket-wearing self.

"You're not stupid," Erik refuted firmly. "You're beyond intelligent. But your choices could use some of that intelligence."

Peter closed his eyes as his mind began to drift with the drugs in his IV. "You're spending too much time with Charles."

There was an almost inaudible laugh. "Then my time in the Ukraine must have been well spent."

"'ow's Ukraine?" Peter mumbled tiredly.

"I'll tell you about it if you try to sleep," Erik promised.

Peter hummed an acknowledgement.

"It hasn't changed as much as I'd imagined it would," Erik said, switching into Polish. "My friend Apostol was there, and he had already made Charles's present. I was able to stay with his family for a few days, and I told him about you. And Charles. Your mother.

"Yesterday, we were in a bar where a fight broke out, so we had to flee before the police arrived and recognized me... I feel like a different man from that day, but I don't regret what I did. I would do it all again for you."

At the sound of rhythmic breathing, Erik took a deep, cleansing breath. He switched the phone to its speaker setting and drew his attention back to the sky.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, Erik Lehnsherr remained on the phone as his son slept.

* * *

Less than five hours later, Erik barged into the lab, his eyes sharply scanning for his son.

Empty.

Erik pivoted and marched out into the basement hallway.

"Whoa," Hank said, running into the father. "Didn't realize that you were back."

"Where's Peter?" he demanded impatiently.

"Upstairs," Hank said with a nod upwards. "His fever's down, so he just needs to take it easy…" The mutant trailed off as Erik was already stomping down the hallway.

Erik jabbed at the elevator buttons until it spat him out on the second floor. He hurried down the hall, forcing Peter's door to open before he even arrived.

But Peter wasn't in his bed. He wasn't even in his room.

Erik scowled and took a step backwards.

 _Our room_ , Charles mentally informed the metal-bender.

Erik blinked and then took to the staircase. He hurried down to the master suite at the end of the hall, this door opening without his touch as well.

Peter laid in the center of the bed, looking ill but very much alive. Erik let out a small breath of relief as he approached the teen laying in the large bed.

"He's been sleeping ever since you called," Charles said, rolling forwards from the edge of the room.

Erik looked over, gave him a grateful nod, and then sat beside Peter on the bed.

Charles looked between the two. "I'll be in my study."

Erik gave him a grateful look as Charles rolled out. He then untied and slid off his shoes before stretching out beside his son. As he felt the bed move with each of Peter's breaths, Erik sighed and let his eyes slide closed.

* * *

It was late that night when Charles rolled back into the room. He looked over to see Peter still asleep (a typically rare sight) and Erik stretched out beside him, gently combing through Peter's floppy, silver hair.

"Hank gave me the good news," Charles said as he rolled closer. He looked Peter over, seeing how sweaty he'd become when his fever had broken.

Erik smiled softly, still running his fingers through Peter's hair. "Our idiot son lives to see another day."

"He now has more opportunities to leave his coat and run in the snow." Charles grinned as he rolled up to the bed.

"More iced-over ponds to run over," Erik added with annoyed fondness.

"More Monets to steal."

"More prisons to sneak into." Erik and Charles exchanged amused looks.

"I'm, like, right here," Peter grumbled with his eyes closed. He swatted away his father's hand resting on his head. "And all that stuff makes me the coolest."

Erik sat up against the headboard with an eye roll.

"How're you fairing?" Charles asked.

Peter raised a thumbs up without opening his eyes.

"Well," Erik said as he slapped his thighs, "it looks like we're in need of some presents." He stood up.

"Yay, presents..." Peter blearily mumbled into his pillow.

When Charles gave him a confused look, Erik indicated his head towards Charles's watch. Charles raised it and saw: 12:02.

"Raven will kill us if we open presents without her," Charles noted.

"She can try," Erik said as left to fetch presents from the jet. "I'd win."

In the time that Erik took to retrieve all of their gifts, Charles had prepared two cups of cocoa and a glass of water. Erik set the gifts down at the edge of the bed and took a mug from Charles.

"I want sugar," Peter whined, tiredly pushing himself up into a sitting position.

Charles pushed the glass of water his way. Peter took it with a frown.

"Merry Christmas," Erik murmured as he pushed a square, butcher-paper-and-string-wrapped parcel Charles's way. Charles smiled and took the gift.

"We don't even celebrate this holiday!" Peter protested at the exchange.

"But Charles does," Erik told him with a narrowed gaze.

Charles grinned as he unwrapped the square. Carved with smoothed boxwood and ebony, Charles pulled out the handmade chess set.

"I had a friend in the Ukraine craft this for you," Erik said.

Only knowing that Erik had gone to visit a friend, Charles turned his gaze on Erik. "You risked being caught by the Ukrainian police to get me a chess set?"

"A _homemade_ chess set," Peter corrected before taking a sip of the cocoa in his hands.

Erik rolled his eyes and swiped the mug of cocoa back as Charles admired the hand-carved pieces.

Charles gave Erik an adoring smile. "It's beautiful, Erik. Thank you."

"Aw, you bastards started without me!" Raven angrily protested as she barged into the room. Coffees in both hands, she stomped over to the men at the edge of the bed and dropped onto the floor. Hank tiredly followed her in, balancing a mountain of presents in his long arms.

"Is that coffee?" Peter asked hopefully, leaning towards Raven.

"No," Cherik snapped with a look to the teen.

Peter frowned and rested back against the headrest.

"Mine first," Raven declared, setting down the coffees and grabbing the top three presents out of Hank's arms. She tossed each to Cherik and son, and each lazily pulled apart the wrapping papers.

"But we don't believe in this holiday," Peter checked with his father.

Erik gave him the look to shut it.

"We celebrated Hanukkah," Raven quipped, "so just stuff it and smile at your pogo stick."

Peter gave it a smile of appreciation as he revealed the stick.

Charles and Erik shared unimpressed looks.

"I got you guys matching sweaters," Raven said with an excited smile, pointing between their packages.

Charles stopped unwrapping to roll his eyes at his sister. "What was the point in wrapping them if you keep spoiling the surprises?"

"You're a telepath," she said defensively. "That's spoiler enough."

Erik held up his grey sweater with appreciatively raised eyebrows and a nod.

"Chocolate sauce?" half-asleep Hank asked, squinting down at his present from the blonde.

Raven gave him a suggestive smirk.

"Ew." Peter grimaced.

Charles hurriedly pulled out his wrapped presents. "Let's move on."

And, after opening more toys, gadgets, and accessories, the five chatted until the early hours of the morning. Despite the coffees, Raven and Hank fell asleep on the floor, wrapped in each other's arms.

"Scoot over," Erik said with a shove to his son's hip.

Peter sleepily groaned but rolled over to the edge of the large bed.

Exhausted, Erik and Charles got into bed and collapsed against each other. Charles let his head loll onto Erik's chest while Erik let his hand lazily drift over Charles's back.

"You know I didn't mean it negatively," Erik said after a while.

"What?" Charles asked, half-asleep.

"The mediocrity of this life," Erik said. "I meant it's… simple."

Charles propped up to look at him.

Erik brushed the hair from Charles's face. "It's not what I pictured as ideal, this life that others would see as mediocre. But I can't imagine wanting any other life."

Charles leaned his head into Erik's hand.

"I can't imagine more than wanting what you've given me." Erik's eyes shone with sincerity.

Charles leaned forwards and kissed Erik. "I'm sorry for my overreaction."

Erik kissed him back. "I've done much worse."

Charles grinned roguishly and leaned in to whisper, "I like it when you do worse to me."

Erik grinned back. "Even in a room filled with people?"

From the floor, Raven drowsily growled, "If you two start having sex, I will too."

Charles and Erik grinned, but Charles lowered his head back to Erik's chest.

As Erik's hand resumed stroking his back, Charles murmured, "Happy Christmas, Erik."

Erik kissed the top of his head. "Merry Christmas, Charles."

Wrapped in each other's arms and surrounded by their loved ones, the couple watched the snow drift on a very merry Christmas.

 **Merry Christmas, friends! I hope you, too, spend these days with those you hold dear.**


	4. How to Fight the Nightmares

**This one takes place a few weeks after Magda's death and the Lehnsherrs' move into the mansion.**

 **How to Fight the Nightmares**

Erik Lehnsherr forgot that the war was over.

He huddled against the barbed fence, slathered in mud. Mud that reeked of decaying bodies. Of air that reeked of decaying bodies.

Everybody died freely in this camp.

"Get up," a deep voice spat in German.

Shaking, Erik raised his head to see the silhouette of a tall, sturdy man standing over him. Erik could only see the man's shoes; they were neatly clean, but the man stank of death.

The silhouette twirled something in his left hand. "I gave you an order, Erik."

Feeling like the eleven-year-old he had been, Erik shakily obeyed. And, as he rose, the hazy moonlight made the man's face distinguishable.

 _Shaw_.

Shaw grinned at Erik's obvious surprise. "Did you think I wouldn't come back for you?" He took a threatening step closer. "For him?"

Erik was confused as to who the "him" was. Until he heard the scream.

Pinned into the rotting mud, little Peter thrashed and cried. The two armed men held him face-down, barely allowing the boy to breathe around the wet dirt.

Instinctively, Erik stepped towards his son as panic filled him.

But then Shaw held out a hand; Erik's body became helplessly frozen.

"You're going to watch me kill him, just as I did to your mother," Shaw said, drawing closer to Erik's side.

Erik couldn't move away. Erik couldn't move towards his son. And, beyond Peter, Erik recognized the grey-tinted skin of his mother's corpse, wasting into the earth.

Shaw smiled when he saw tears slide down Erik's cheeks.

"Please." It was the only word Erik could manage to get out of his frozen tongue.

" _Eins_." Shaw drew closer to Erik's ear.

"Papa!" Peter shrieked. His screaming was fierce, panicked.

" _Zwei_ ," Shaw said, his breath hot and moist on Erik's ear.

"PAPA!" Peter writhed against the mud. He screamed just like Anya had.

"Drei."

The men fired their guns at the boy's head, exploding him into bloody shrapnel of brain matter and bone.

With a jolt, Erik launched himself upwards. As he heaved in breath after breath, he came to realize he was in the dark of Charles's mansion. He was in bed. He was nowhere near Auschwitz.

He remembered that the war was over.

Erik threw off the sheets and stumbled to the ensuite bathroom. He didn't bother with the light as he yanked on the water and immediately splashed the cold onto his face. After a few scrubs, he shoved it back off and looked himself in the mirror.

He wasn't eleven; he was an adult, for Christ's sake. And Shaw was nowhere near him nor his family.

Erik yanked the plush towel off the hook and dried his face. He threw down the towel and left his room on automatic legs.

He reached the room quickly, just across the hall. Without a touch, the door swung open and Erik marched in. Because he had to see him; he had to know that Peter was alive and breathing and hadn't just—

With his blue sheets wildly strewn across his ankles, Peter slept on.

Relief flooded his vision, but Erik managed to stumble forwards and stare at his child. It was remarkable, really—that he had a child. This child was the world's last remnant of the woman who had given him hope in that godforsaken concentration camp.

This boy was now the only thing giving him hope in this godforsaken world.

Erik fell to his knees beside the bed and hungrily swallowed every detail. How little Peter's feet were, wrapped in those sapphire blue sheets. How he kept his small fist balled next to his face. How his young face glowed in the moonlight.

How his chest rose and fell, again and again.

Erik fell back and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Because his child was alive. He had family. And he was not alone.

With a glance to Peter's bedside clock, Erik rose. Three in the morning was just as good a time as any to have coffee.

Erik only turned on the lights once he reached the kitchen. He kept quiet, preparing the pot and letting it brew. As he waited, he was graciously given plenty of time to replay his dream's ending again and again. It was making his stomach sick.

"Not to intrude," Charles said as he strode into the kitchen, "but I could hear your anguish from my bedroom."

Erik scowled at the island. "Keep out of my head, Charles."

"I gladly would if I could," the telepath refuted as he opened the bread box. "You're projecting."

Erik forced himself to take a steading breath, if only to stop letting a complete stranger into his mind.

Charles threw him an unappreciative look. "I'd like to think I'm more than a stranger by now. At least an acquaintance."

Erik kept his frown as he watched his "acquaintance" pop a slice of bread into the toaster. He noticed that Charles had a severe case of bedhead and his blue t-shirt went nicely with his blue-based, flannel pajama bottoms.

"Happy to hear that you approve of my sleeping clothes," Charles chirped as he grabbed a butter knife.

Erik returned to scowling at the island as he massaged his temples. He needed to calm his mind so he could get the telepath _out_.

"You dreamt of Shaw, I presume," Charles commented as he moved to pull jam out of the refrigerator door.

"It doesn't matter," Erik said curtly.

"The concentration camp this time?"

Erik threw his dark scowl to the man. "I don't want to discuss it."

Charles studied him for a moment, but he nodded.

The toast popped. Charles moved to fetch it. "But if I may make a suggestion?"

Erik groaned quietly.

"I believe," Charles said as he buttered and jammed his toast, "that our nightmares are symptoms of a larger plague. And unless we explore the dreams, we will never find a cure for the disease."

Erik slowly raised his eyes to meet Charles's gaze.

"You want vengeance against Shaw," Charles said. "I understand that. But I believe that vengeance is not your plague."

Erik reluctantly began to mull over those words.

"Goodnight, friend," Charles said in a suddenly light tone. He grabbed his toast and took a large bite as he exited the room.

Erik slumped against the counter as his thoughts swirled. With a glance to his right, he realized that his coffee was ready. He grabbed the pot and poured himself a large mug.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Erik nursed his bitter drink.

Light feet padded into the room. "Papa?"

Erik looked up to see his little son, still in shark pajamas, tearfully look for his father. Erik set his coffee on the table. "What are you doing out of bed, Pietro?"

Peter's lower lip pouted as he hurried over and crawled onto his father's lap. "I had a bad dream." He cuddled closer into his father's chest.

Erik wrapped his arms around the boy, and he felt himself relax. "Another bad dream?"

Peter nodded against Erik's grey t-shirt.

Erik kissed the top of his son's messy, silver hair. "What was this one about?"

Peter shrugged.

It wasn't a hard guess for Erik. "About your mother?"

Peter reluctantly nodded.

Erik squeezed his son closer. "I'm sorry, son. But you are not alone. You have…"

"Charles," Peter mumbled into Erik's shirt.

"And you'll always have me," Erik added, his heart clenching at the thought of someone else filling his son's father-figure.

Peter relaxed his head against Erik's chest.

"Would you like another story tonight?"

Peter nodded sleepily.

"There once was a boy who believed that he was powerless," Erik began, thinking back to his dream. "He believed that he had no friends, and he had no family. And then, one day, everything changed…"

As Erik's mouth took over the tale, his mind began to wander back to Charles's words. It wasn't difficult to figure out Peter's disease.

Erik hugged his son closer. "And the day he met Pietro was the best day of his life."

And it wasn't difficult to realize that Erik suffered from the very same plague as his son.


	5. How to Know You're Family

**How to Know You're Family**

 _April 1962, North Salem, New York_

Charles snapped his briefcase shut and looked to Raven unhappily.

Lounging against his windowsill, she gave her brother a playful grin. "You can't get mad at me when you're the one digging through my head."

Charles yanked the briefcase off the bed and gave her a stern point. "You will not allow Peter off this property while I'm gone, Raven."

"You seriously never wondered how far he could run?" she challenged curiously.

"I don't think the babysitter is the best choice for experimentation," Charles said and marched out of the bedroom.

Raven followed. "I'm not a babysitter—I'm his aunt now!"

Charles froze. Normally, he might have brushed off her comment. But with the way her thoughts had been projected into his mind, Charles had a very clear picture of exactly what his sister was implying.

Raven smirked and tilted her head. "Erik left his clothes all over your room. Unless your legs have grown significantly…?" She looked to his lower half in consideration.

" _Do not go snooping through my bedroom!_ " Charles scowled at this all-too-familiar conversation with his sister.

Blue scales shifted across the woman until a cloned copy of Erik Lehnsherr stood before Charles. "But I suppose you'd allow me to snoop through your bedroom?" A gleam came to Erik's eyes. "Or should I say our bedroom?"

Charles's grip on his briefcase tightened.

"Dad?"

The two adults snapped their attention over to the curious, silver-haired boy at the end of the hall.

"Better," Erik's lookalike announced, blue scales rising and falling to reveal the blonde-haired woman.

" _Raven!_ " Peter cheered, bolting towards her in a flash.

Raven caught him in her arms with a grunt and picked him up for a hug. "How've you been, little man?"

"I'm _so_ fast," Peter informed her with an excited grin.

"I'd like to see that," Raven told him with a conspiring smile.

"I have to go," Charles announced, trying to intervene on that line of conversation. He kissed the top of Peter's head and reminded, "Don't forget the rules, please."

"I'm so good!" Peter reminded back, flopping backwards in Raven's grip to stare upside-down at the man. "Dad tells me that all the time!"

"Then I'll have nothing to fret about," Charles agreed with a small smile.

When Charles turned to leave, Peter shot up and grabbed his sleeve. "Wait! When are you coming back?"

Charles looked into those wide, sad eyes, and his heart softened (and not only because they bared a stark resemblance to a certain family member). He soothed Peter's shoulder and promised, "I'll be back tonight."

"Can I come?" Peter pleaded.

Charles's heart had melted by this point. This was the same routine Peter pulled when Erik left on business (as demonstrated the day prior). "Afraid not. The university needs me to sign _lots_ of boring, boring papers all day."

Peter slumped in Raven's arms.

"But if you're still awake upon my return, I'll read you a story," Charles vowed.

Peter perked up slightly. "Any story?"

Charles grinned and ruffled Peter's silver hair. "Any you'd like."

This soothed the boy, and he grinned back.

"In the meantime, you get to spend all day with _me_ ," Raven reminded him with a smile. "What do you want to do first?"

"Um, ice cream?"

"That can be arranged," Raven agreed and began carrying the bouncing boy to the kitchen.

As Peter's cheers faded into the other room, Charles gave an exasperated smile to the ceiling and took his leave.

* * *

"Can you change into animals?"

"God, no." Raven looked over to the boy as he carefully constructed a grass mound.

Peter mulled that over as he yanked out another fistful of grass. "But you can be any people?"

Raven lowered her large sunglasses down her nose. "Anybody I've seen."

"Like Dad?"

In response, Erik Lehnsherr suddenly sat beside the young boy.

Peter cheered. "What about Uncle Charles?"

Charles Xavier was now lounging on the picnic blanket.

Peter cheered and laughed again. "You're a boy!"

"Charles" smiled.

"You should turn into a girl," Peter declared. "Like—" The boy stopped suddenly as his smile slid from his cheeks. He looked back to the grass and halfheartedly pulled at the blades.

Raven gently transformed back into her preferred state. It wasn't hard for her to connect the lines on that one. "It's OK, Peter. We all feel sad sometimes, especially when we miss people."

Peter continued lightly tugging on the grass.

"Sometimes, when you're sad about missing people," Raven offered, "you can remember all the people you _do_ have that make you happy."

"Like Dad?"

"And me," Raven contributed with a soft grin. "And Charles."

"He's _Uncle_ ," Peter corrected her seriously.

"Ew." Raven scrunched her nose at the idea of the lovers being literal brothers.

But as Peter sat up curiously, Raven realized she'd done something very, very wrong.

"Why is it icky?" Peter asked innocently.

"Um…" Raven pushed her sunglasses back over her eyes and pursed her lips.

"You don't like Uncle Charles?" Peter knelt in front of her.

Raven looked down to him. "You do know that he's not _really_ your uncle, right?"

Peter frowned and looked down. "But I thought he was my family…"

"He is," Raven hurried to correct.

Peter's large, sad eyes looked up at her. "But you said he's not my uncle."

"Well, he's not."

Peter's shoulders slumped.

Raven ground her teeth at the screw-up. "OK, if I tell you something, you have to _promise_ to never tell anybody."

Peter looked up. "Dad said it's bad to have secrets."

"It's OK if you have secrets with me or your dad or Charles," Raven amended. "Kinda like when you keep a surprise party a secret."

Now Peter was confused. "We're gonna have a surprise party?"

"No," Raven said. "The surprise is Charles is your family. Because he and your dad love each other."

Peter was unimpressed. "Yeah. And they love me, and I love them, and we love you, and I love you, and you love us and me—"

"No," Raven corrected. "Your dad and Charles _love_ -love each other."

Peter thought this over. "But they don't kiss."

Raven grinned, knowing they'd done a whole lot more than that. "Yeah, they do."

"Then how come I never saw it?"

Raven hated herself for going into this conversation. "Because Charles and Erik are… shy. About… their love."

"Shy?"

"You know how you have that one girl in your class who doesn't really ever talk?" Raven prompted impatiently. Peter nodded. "She doesn't talk because she's _shy_. And their love is like that."

"Oh." Peter pondered this and then announced, "I like that they love each other!" He grew a large, excited grin. "That means Uncle Charles _is_ family!"

"Me too, but," Raven gave him a serious look, "it's a secret, remember?"

Peter's grin dimmed as he adopted her seriousness. "Oh, yeah. Because it's shy."

"Right…"

When Peter excitedly opened his mouth again, Raven braced herself.

"Can we play hide-and-go-seek?!"

Raven relaxed, smiled, and closed her eyes. "You know the rules—scram. One. Two."

With a flurry of giggles, Peter took off for the flowerbeds.

* * *

Charles pulled up late that night. As he stepped from the car, he could see his flowerbeds all-too-well in the moonlight.

"Hide-and-go-seek got a _little_ out of hand," Raven explained with a wince as she walked off the porch.

Charles rubbed his face in fond exasperation. "Please tell me he's not inside, bouncing off the walls on a sweets-induced sugar high."

Raven affectionately patted his suit-clad shoulder. "That little angel is knocked the hell out."

"Thank God."

Raven smirked. "He's the most perfect maniac ever. You and Erik are really lucky."

Charles smiled fondly. "We are." However, he quickly dropped the smile to give her a serious look and a point. "Not a word to a soul about what you know, Raven."

"I'll never speak of it again," Raven vowed and backed towards her car. "Call me if you and your moocher ever need a date night." With a final smirk, she ducked into her car and drove off.

Charles had the distinct feeling that her knowledge would bite him in the ass one day.

As Raven's headlights faded into the distance, Charles entered the mansion, dropped off his briefcase and coat, and headed upstairs.

When Charles peeked his head into Peter's room, he saw that the bedside lamp was still on. Charles walked in.

Curled up in his bed, Peter was sound asleep and clutching his worn copy of _Peter Rabbit_.

Charles couldn't resist affectionately brushing through the boy's silver hair.

Peter groggily blinked his eyes open. "'Ncle Char's…"

"Go back to sleep, Peter," Charles instructed kindly.

Peter sleepily pulled his book towards the adult. "This one…"

Charles grinned and accepted the book. Carefully, he scooted the boy over and laid out beside him. "I see you've chosen your favorite rascally rabbit again. I wonder if the tale will have changed since the last time we've read it."

Peter's eyes closed as his breathing evened out.

" _Once upon a time, there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter…_ "

By the time Peter Rabbit's tale had concluded (again), Charles softly closed the book and looked down at the sleeping boy. "Goodnight, Peter."

"'Night, 'Ncle Char's," Peter mumbled blearily, not quite opening his eyes. "I love you, 'ven if you're shy…"

Charles smiled, not quite understanding the child's sleep-distorted words. "And I love you, Mr. Rabbit." He kissed the boy's silver hair, gently rose from the bed, and turned off the light.

As Charles tiptoed out of the room, he thought he heard Peter mumble something about dads.


	6. How to Be Wednesday's Child

**Set the summer during** ** _Belong_** **'s epilogue.**

 **How to Be Wednesday's Child**

It was a Wednesday.

But even Wednesdays were granted their demons.

But it wasn't like Peter believed that. Because it was a Wednesday in the _summer_ —the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and everyone that claimed the mansion as their permanent residence had gone to a weekend of CIA meetings! This had granted Peter with one of the utmost pleasures: the mansion. To. Him. Self.

"If you keep fiddling with your spoon, I will break it."

Almost to himself.

"It's not fiddling," Peter confidently defended, still twirling the spoon through his fingers. "I'm testing its weight, and its girth, and its carrying capacity, and its—"

But even as the teen spoke, the spoon's curves flattened until Peter was holding nothing more than a narrow sheet of metal. Erik never looked up from his newspaper.

Peter dramatically threw himself against his chair and groaned. "God, I'm so _bored_. And you won't even let me play with my _spoon_." He tossed the metal onto the table with a _clud_.

Erik tossed the paper onto the table and dryly looked to his son. "What would you like to do?"

"Well…" Peter grinned as the other party's attention was now handed to him. "I'd like to take a few laps around Europe. Or at least DC. Langley. I could drop in on Charles and the gang, see if they got any secrets they'd care to spill. Maybe I can find out about Area 51—"

"You're not leaving this property without my express permission, let alone the state," Erik reminded him. He leaned back in his seat and lazily warped what remained of Peter's spoon.

"I've done it before," Peter grumbled as he slumped over his nearly-finished bowl of Cheerios.

Erik's look was warning enough.

Peter groaned again and gave his father a pained, pleading expression. "Can't we play a game or something?"

Erik begrudgingly relented. "What would you like to play?"

"Tag." Peter grinned.

Erik remained stoic. "What about Risk?"

Peter rolled his eyes, hating his father's brilliant mind. "Foosball?"

Erik squinted a bit. "I'd prefer not to challenge you in a match of speed, Pietro."

"Aw, come on," Peter whined. "I've got so much _energyyyyyy_." He vibrated in his seat to drive the point home.

Erik looked to Peter's few, lone floating Cheerios, the pantry, and then his son. "Did you steal the Hostess treats when I was in the shower?"

Peter scoffed and casually leaned, throwing his arm over the back of his chair. "Dad, please. I'm thirteen; I can handle being by myself while you _shower_." He dramatically rolled his eyes.

Erik didn't buy it for a second, but he decided to let this one slip. "Fine. You want to run, and I'd prefer strategizing. We'll play hide-and-go-seek."

Peter raised his silver eyebrows in surprise. It'd been years since he'd played this game, let alone with his father.

"I'll count to ten, and you can't move from the spot you choose," Erik instructed. "And you must remain inside the mansion."

Peter grew a toothy grin. "Oh, I'm so gonna win."

"You only win if I give up," Erik reminded him with his shark-like smile. "And I don't give up, Pietro."

This only fueled Peter's competitive excitement.

"One," Erik began.

Peter shot off like a rocket. He circled the entire mansion, trying to think of the best places to hide—the smallest, the narrowest, the most obscure. Peter was determined to beat his always-winning father at _something_. (Erik was too wise to challenge his son to games of speed.)

Peter circled the house again and again, creating distractions and false-leads for his father. It was only when he heard his father's clear voice call out "seven" that Peter decided on the attic. He bolted into the dusty dark, and he giddily shimmied into the crawlspace. With a large grin, he shoved past the random furniture and the abandoned decorations. (Charles had mentioned that he'd stuffed a large number of ugly items belonging to his late mother up here.)

Peter noticed a crook in the corner of the room, and he dove for it, knowing he was about out of time. As he dove, he shoved over a floor lamp and kicked at a loveseat, causing a large dresser to topple towards him. As it neared him, Peter panicked, giving him just enough time to close his eyes and wait for the pain.

But it never came. As dust clouds settled over his hair and in his mouth, Peter peeked an eye open to see the large dresser suspended only and inch above him, having landed on the base of the floor lamp first. Peter let out a breath and congratulated himself, realizing that this was a phenomenal hiding spot.

But as the excitement wore off, Peter realized that he was alone. In the dark. And he was underneath a dresser. Peter squirmed, not wanting the dresser to be anywhere near to trapping him.

But as he shifted, the base of the lamp rolled, releasing the dresser to collapse onto Peter. The weight forced the air out of his lungs, and that was when the panic rolled in. Because now he was alone, in the dark, and he was absolutely pinned beneath a heavyset dresser.

He'd chosen the smallest and narrowest spot. He'd chosen the most obscure location, knowing it'd make him hard to be found.

Peter couldn't _breathe_. The dresser was _pinning_ him. He was trapped, and it was too small, and he couldn't _move_ , he was locked away, and no one would ever find him because he couldn't **_move_**.

In the distance, he realized he could hear screaming. It sounded a lot like him. He thought he could hear shouting too, but he couldn't tell—the screaming was too loud.

But that didn't matter because Peter was going to die here, he was going to never get a breath in to call for his dad because there was a giant of a dresser on his chest, and this was where he had gone to die. His heart hurt, and his vision sparked through the dark, and he thought that this was what death felt like. He remembered that this was what death felt like.

Later, he doesn't remember how his father tore through the attic, or how the dresser was suddenly wrenched from his body. He doesn't remember any of it; he only came to remember that he ended up sitting on the stairs, in the light of day, with his father's arms tight around him.

"That's it, Pietro," Erik soothed in a strained voice. "Match my breaths."

Peter realized that his palm was being held in place against his father's chest. He struggled to obey his father; it was the only coherent thought he could piece together.

There was a strangled sound.

"Shh. It's alright. You're safe."

It took Peter a moment to realize that that dying-animal sound had been made by him. It took him another few moments to realize that his cheeks were tingling, and they were tingling because they were covered in salty tears.

"I'm here, Pietro."

Erik's voice paired with those words, and they permeated through Peter's mental barrier. Peter soaked them in, and he let them spread through his bones like warm gold. He slowly began to relax against his father's chest, in between his father's knees.

Still holding Peter's arms, Erik kissed the top of his son's head. He didn't move from that spot for a very long time.

Peter no longer found the joy in that Wednesday in the summer. And he never again found the joy in playing that particular game.

"I have you, Pietro."

Peter relaxed a bit more.

 **This oneshot actually has a follow-up, soon to arrive.**


	7. How to Have Sweet Dreams

**A continuation of "How to Be Wednesday's Child."**

 **How to Have Sweet Dreams**

"I can come back tonight," Charles offered anxiously.

Erik gave a swift shake of his head, not that the other could see it. "It's under control; stick with your plans."

Charles silently stuffed the phone with worry.

"Just make sure you return on Tuesday," Erik halfheartedly threatened.

"I'd hate to disappoint you."

After a moment, Charles asked, "How is he now?"

Erik's heart refilled with the heavy lead. He pulled the phone cord and leaned from his seat to peer into the cracked door's bedroom. "He's still asleep." When Erik had offered that they take a nap to get their minds off of the day, the adolescent had given him a dead stare and complied like a zombie. That had been after dinner, and Peter was still asleep four hours later.

"He'll have had a full night's rest by the time he wakes up," Charles commented.

"I know." Erik rested his head against the doorframe as he watched his son sleep on in the dimly lit room. He hated that his son was in this state. He hated that he'd suggested an activity that put Peter in this state. He hated that he couldn't have prevented the cause for these fears in the first place.

"Erik, you can't blame yourself," Charles reprimanded lightly but firmly from the receiver.

Erik gritted his teeth and ground his forehead against the wooden doorframe. Charles could believe what he liked, but it wouldn't change reality.

The metal throughout the floor vibrated.

" _Erik_."

His name dragged him out of his thick thoughts. "What?"

"You didn't cause this, Erik," Charles said, his voice now strong and sure. "Don't cloud your mind with your god complex."

Erik resumed grinding his teeth as his gaze drifted back to his son. "It wouldn't have been this way if I'd stayed."

There was a pause.

"You're right."

Erik wanted something to hurt his physical body right then. He wanted the ache contracting his soul to be something tangible, something that could bleed.

"But you didn't cause this, Erik," Charles continued firmly. "It was a chain of events, frankly out of your control. To think that one of your actions could have affected our lives so drastically for the better is… naïve."

Peter twitched in his sleep.

Erik dropped his forehead back to the doorframe. He understood Charles, but he… he didn't know what to do. "Our son is hurting, Charles."

"I know." Charles's voice had come back quieter, softer. "But it's a bloody miracle that he had you to care for him today. When…" Charles's voice trailed off as he reconsidered his words.

"Say it," Erik ground out through gritted teeth.

"During the time that Peter returned to me, after the island…" Charles's voice had thickened; he cleared his throat. "Well, he would have benefitted from your presence. It's imperative that you're there for him now."

Erik hated himself all the same as he stared at that broken teen. "He's catatonic; I can't do anything for him."

" _He's Peter_ ," Charles said forcefully. "He's strong, and he's vibrant, and he will bounce back from this episode. But he needs you more than anything, now just as much as he ever did."

Erik floundered for how he could positively affected his son; he'd spent the majority of the afternoon saying nothing meaningful as Peter stared into a lifeless abyss. "What did you do for him, Charles? How… I've never—" Erik pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on controlling his breathing.

"Give him time," Charles said gently. "But be there. Talk to him. Help him understand himself when he becomes frustrated."

Erik leaned his side against the doorframe. "He needs you as well."

"Honestly, Erik, tonight is—"

"Tuesday," Erik pressed lightly. "But not a day later."

"Will there be consequences if I disobey?" Charles's voice held a grin.

Erik grinned as well. "I wouldn't test a metal-bender."

Charles gave a short laugh. "I believe I could control you much better—and without a physical touch, too."

"Oh, but I think we'd both prefer it with the physical touch, if it's all the same."

Charles chuckled. "I'll allow it."

A whimper erupted from Peter's lips.

Erik's eyes snapped to their son. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Of course." Charles implicitly understood Erik's shift in tone. "Keep me informed."

Erik dropped the receiver into its cradle and strode towards Peter's bed. The teen tossed in his blue bedsheets, writhing and whimpering against an invisible hold.

"Peter." Erik sat on the edge of the bed, anxiously hovering over his son.

Peter turned and winced; he didn't awaken.

"Peter."

The sound Peter emitted was small, but it was crowded with despair.

"Peter," Erik called, placing his large hands on the teen's scrawny shoulders.

At the touch, Peter's eyes sprang open, and he wildly looked around the dim bedroom. Despite his nearly full night's rest, his eyes were bloodshot.

"You're alright," Erik soothed, running a hand through Peter's silver hair.

Peter squinted, still trying to make sense of his world. "Dad?"

"You were dreaming," Erik explained.

Something quieted in Peter's gaze. "Oh." He relaxed slightly against his bed.

"Move over," Erik told him with a gentle nudge.

Blearily, Peter scooted over in the bed until Erik could stretch out beside him. It reminded the pair of similar nights, months and years ago.

The two remained in silence, a thick sense of unease choking the bedroom's air. Charles's words flitted through Erik's mind: _talk to him._

"I'd have nightmares," Erik offered, trying to relate to his son.

Peter glanced up at the adult. "I bet yours don't freak you out as much." He picked at his fingernails.

"Oh, mine bring their own level of hell," Erik grimly replied.

That interested Peter; he looked up at his father. "Really?"

"We're discussing your dreams," Erik redirected briskly.

"But you know mine," Peter protested. "What kind of nightmares do you have?"

Erik glanced down at those pleading blue eyes, and his heart twisted; his son just wanted to relate to someone, someone who could possibly understand all that he had gone through. Erik looked straight ahead and cleared his throat. "I've always been captive to nightmares; I'd imagine we've dreamed similar dreams."

"Like what?"

Erik relented entirely. "Your mother, for one. Her death racked me with guilt for…" Well, he couldn't put a number of years on it; it still haunted him. "I still dream of her blood on my hands."

Peter quietly listened, and he quietly waited for his father to continue.

"And I've always dreamed of being back at Auschwitz," Erik somberly said. "Always. Even before it happened, we lived in fear, and I dreamed of all the horrors that could happen. The camps were worse than I'd anticipated, though."

Peter continued silently listening.

"And, of course, you," Erik said.

"Me?" In all of his brilliance, Peter sounded surprised to hear that he'd made the list.

Erik gave a nod. "And Charles. Although, I'll admit that I've had more nightmares concerning you than anything else."

Peter frowned.

"When you were young," Erik explained, "I'd dream that Shaw would reach you and do to you what they'd done in Auschwitz. I'd dream that you were trapped in our burning house with Anya. And then I'd dream that Emma Frost would make me watch as she killed you from the mind, out. And then when I was in that prison, _God, when I was in that prison_ …" Erik shook his head. "I did nothing but imagine every possibility that would erase you from this planet; it made me… _volatile_ to think that I'd never know if I shared this world with you still.

"I've dreamed so often that you'd drowned in that godforsaken frozen pond that I still can't believe it didn't happen," Erik muttered, rubbing his forehead. "And I've been dreaming that Frost had you pull the trigger when you were her puppet those months ago. And, the most recent edition of my hells is that something happens to you like it did today, and I can't reach you." Erik looked his son over, not entirely certain that he had even saved his son today.

"Wow." Peter leaned his head against his pillow as he soaked all that in. "That's…"

Erik was slightly worried for the answer.

"… _Sick_."

Erik dropped a glare on his son. "Sick?"

"Well, I mean, it's dark and scary for you, but that's badass, man," Peter blabbed. "I've died in your mind so many times that I could have, like, my own novel. You're, like, a serial killer."

Erik frowned. "You know that I _have_ killed people, Pietro."

Peter paused. "Dude. You are _totally_ a serial killer."

Erik dragged a hand down his face.

"Does that mean you've been plotting my murder?"

"It would have already occurred if that were my intention, Pietro."

A large grin spread across Peter's face; Erik rolled his eyes.

"It's still cool," Peter said with a yawn. "I've lived like a thousand crazy deaths in your head and then I always pop up in the morning, all alive and hungry and fast and breathing." He yawned again.

Erik gave a nod, thanking every god there was for that.

"You should tell me a crazy killer story from your glory days," Peter mumbled as his eyes began to close.

Erik rolled his eyes at his son's terminology. "Why don't I recount a certain shopping trip with Uncle Charles where you were forced to learn to not run off from your guardians."

Peter sleepily smirked.

As Erik launched into the story, Peter drifted off to sleep, and soon, his head lolled onto his father's shoulder.

"Good night, Pietro," Erik murmured, kissing the top of that silver hair. Too tired to move, Erik threw a hand behind his head and settled into the bed beside his son. "Have sweet dreams."

And that night, they both did.


	8. How to Have a Halloween

**Halloween, 1961**

 **How to Have a Halloween**

" _Can I go to Silvie's house today?_ "

Charles looked in the rearview mirror to see the boy excitedly bouncing in the backseat. He squinted. "Did they feed you sugar in school?"

" _Duh_. It's Halloween."

Ah. So it was. The day was unremarkable in the Xavier mansion and typically passed by unnoticed. In fact, any holiday aside from birthdays and Hanukkah passed without a care in the Xavier mansion. Charles wondered if this school celebration had been Peter's first experience with Halloween.

"So can I go to Silvie's house?" Peter pressed hopefully.

"We'll have to discuss that with your father," Charles explained as he continued driving back to the mansion.

"But _you_ could take me," Peter persuaded in a whine.

Charles cast a confused look to the rearview mirror. "I thought you didn't like Silvie."

Peter twiddled with the strap dangling from his backpack. "Well, she's not, like, my _friend_ , but she invited our whole class to her house today, and everyone's gonna go, and it sounded cool."

"Is this a Halloween party then?"

"I dunno. I've never been to one."

Touché.

"But Silvie said that there'd be ghosts, and zombies, and robots, and ghost robots, and, like, ghost-zombie robots."

"Sounds ghastly," Charles commented with a fond smile.

"And her mom's making cupcakes, and they're all gonna go trick and treating!" Peter was very excited about the last part, having just learned of the tradition a few hours ago.

Charles tried not to tense at the idea of Peter wandering door-to-door with Shaw still on the loose. Even worse—Peter doing so with nothing but helpless children and mothers to protect him.

Even worse—Erik's reaction to such a suggestion.

"So can I go?" Peter asked, leaning towards the front seats. "Please? Please, please, _please_?"

"You'll have to convince your father," Charles said as they turned into the Xavier gates. He felt a bit bad for shifting the responsibility, but if there were anyone to convince, it would be Erik Lehnsherr.

Peter slumped a bit into the backseat and muttered an "OK."

As the car slowed into the garage, Erik could be seen tinkering with the engine of a motorbike. Having spotted him, Peter threw open the car door and bounded towards his father, all before Charles even shut off the engine.

"Dad! Dad!" Peter was a blur, and then he was in front of the metal-bender. "Can I go to Silvie's house?"

Erik threw down his rag and looked down to his son. "Who is Silvie?"

"A girl from Peter's school," Charles explained as he exited the car. "She invited your son to a Halloween party."

Erik's mouth tilted towards a frown.

"And it's gonna be so cool!" Peter declared excitedly. "She's gonna have cake and candy and zombies and ghost-zombie robots!"

Erik frowned.

"And she said that we could all go trick-or-treating with her after the party!"

Erik's frown morphed into a scowl. "No."

Peter actually stumbled a step back, unsuspecting to his father's firm blow. "N-no?"

"It's too dangerous." Erik's tone was curt and final, and he turned back to the motorbike to end the conversation.

Although he agreed with Erik, Charles's heart broke for the boy.

" _W-why?!_ " Peter wailed, moving further into his father's line of sight. "I really wanna go! Everyone's gonna be there, and I've never even got to go trick-or-treating before—"

" _I said no,_ " Erik harshly said, turning towards his son with that concrete scowl.

Tears rushed to Peter's eyes, and his shoulders slumped.

"Go wash up in the kitchen before you eat," Erik told him, not leaving any room for argument.

At that, Peter sprinted from the room. His sob echoed around them as he streaked out of sight.

The silence that followed after that pained sound pin-pricked Charles's soul.

"Excellently done, Erik," Charles commented drily.

Erik glared at him. "Shaw could get Pietro at any moment, especially when he's that vulnerable." He floated a wrench to his hand and adjusted a plastic bolt.

"Then perhaps you should explain that to him!" Charles argued with a point to the open doorway. "Instead, you shooed your crying son out of the room—"

"He can't fathom the danger that he's in—"

"Oh, for God's sake, he's never had a proper Halloween! He was excited, and you—"

"Well what do you suggest I do, Charles?!" Erik threw the wrench to the wall, echoing a shriek clank around the space. "Tell him to risk his life for a childish whim?!"

"You take him," Charles suggested, trying to calm the situation with a leveled voice. "Explain to him the danger, and take every precaution, but, Erik…" Charles's gaze was everything pleading. "…allow him a childhood."

Erik's stance became less rigid; his glare softened. "I can't risk him, Charles."

"I understand."

Erik closed his eyes for a moment, mulling it over. And then he asked, "Would you come?"

Charles blinked. This felt like a family event, and he was… being included.

Erik opened his eyes once more. "I'd feel much more secure, knowing we had a telepath on our side." The edge of his lips quirked upwards, just barely.

"I'll always be on your side, my friend," Charles assured him.

With a nod, Erik marched out of the room.

Charles stood in a slight daze, letting a stupor of warmth cloud his chest.

Meanwhile, Peter pouted at the apple slices he'd found in the fridge. He knew they were part of his after-school snack (he had no idea what else his father planned to prepare him), but why? What wrongdoing had he done to deserve _this_?

Erik marched into the kitchen, and Peter's feelings plummeted again. His dad was so mean. Why did he have to be so strict and mean and dumb about stuff like this?

"Pietro, I know you're upset," Erik said calmly, coming to sit on a chair beside his son.

Peter frowned because if Erik knew that, why did he act all dumb still?

"But you remember the man that…" Erik trailed off to search for words. "Shaw still wants to hurt our family, Pietro. If you were with your class, you might get attacked."

Peter suddenly understood what his father was implying. "Oh, and my friends would get hurt." Peter would feel really bad if he made that happen.

Confusion flickered across Erik's face. "Pietro, I can't have Shaw hurting _you_. And he'd have all the opportunity to do so if you were out without our protection."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Dad, I'm _crazy_ fast. There's no way any bad guy could get me."

Erik dragged a hand down his face. "We can't risk it, Pietro."

Peter scowled down at his apple slices.

"Which is why Uncle Charles and I will take you."

Peter's head shot up in surprised. He stared at his father's face, but he saw no hints of him kidding. "We're gonna go trick-or-treating?!"

Erik gave a nod, letting a small smile come. "We'll need to leave early if we find any sign of Shaw."

Peter cheered and jumped at his dad for a hug. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Erik smiled and hugged Peter closer. He kissed the top of his head.

Charles strolled into the kitchen with a grin. "Now we'll just need to slap together a costume."

Peter looked up at his pseudo-uncle with lit eyes.

* * *

As Peter happily bounded down the sidewalk, carrying an empty pillowcase and dressed in all black, Erik could barely enjoy the moment; knots churned and rebounded around the insides of his stomach.

Shaw could be here at any moment. Shaw could erase Erik's whole existence _in a second_.

The metal gate they approached creaked. Erik forced himself to take a deep breath and observe as Peter bounded up the walkway to the door. He braced himself as the door opened, relaxed when an old woman appeared, and watched as Peter accepted candy and bounded back.

Peter grinned at his guardians and led the way to the next house.

Erik hated that he couldn't enjoy his son's innocent grin on this holiday. A good portion of his stomach's knots were from guilt; this shouldn't be a child's first Halloween, four years too late. Peter shouldn't feel lucky that he gets to experience this holiday. A child deserved a better childhood than the one Erik's son was experiencing.

Charles's hand snuck into Erik's jacket pocket and gripped Erik's hand.

Erik looked to him, and Charles gave a reassuring smile. It eased something inside of Erik, and he let a breath go.

Peter sprinted back to them (at a normal child's pace, thank God) and shoved his pillowcase towards them excitedly. "She had _Jolly Ranchers_!"

"Excellent!" Charles cheered while Erik tried to form a smile. "You'll split them with me, won't you?"

"No way!" Peter laughed and scurried to the next house.

Charles gave Erik a fond smile, and Erik allowed himself to relax a fraction further.

And the three continued on. Moving house to house, Peter excitedly gained more candy, and Erik allowed himself to relax more. He was even beginning to hope that this would be a night of pure, childlike enjoyment.

"My class!" Peter gasped excitedly, spotting the mob of children and mothers up ahead. He looked up to his guardians with large, pleading eyes. "Can I go show 'em my candy?"

The adults shared a look, and then Erik gave Peter a nod. "Be quick."

Peter's expression lit up.

"But not too quick," Charles cautioned with a knowing look to the boy.

" _OK!_ " Peter shot off towards his classmates, keeping the sprint at a (barely) typical pace.

The two watched him go as fondness washed over them anew.

And then Charles gripped Erik's arm. " _Erik._ "

Erik's head pivoted towards the man as the weight of despair plummeted his stomach.

"I can sense something blocking my mind," Charles said, sharing a look of a dread.

"Where?" Erik's teeth gritted together.

As Charles's mind probed out, the two suddenly had an answer to their question: in a flash of red smoke, Azazel and Emma Frost appeared beside them.

Erik tensed, barely allowing a glance to check on his child's welfare. He didn't want to give away Peter's position, and the boy was inconspicuous with a black cap covering his silver hair.

But Peter was fine chatting with his friends.

Erik focused back on the two villains in front of them.

"Hello, Erik," Emma greeted sweetly.

* * *

Meanwhile, Peter excitedly ran to his classmates with a "Hi!"

The classmates closest to him turned, but they didn't share his enthusiasm. "Hi…" a few of them murmured back.

"Up to the next house, children!" one of the mothers directed, herding the crowd of kindergarteners towards the door.

"Sorry I couldn't come!" Peter explained exuberantly. "My dad didn't want me to go, but we're out trick-or-treating right now too!" He looked to Silvie, who was wearing a fairy princess costume. "Cool wings!"

She touched her wings, as if to shield them from Peter's line of sight. "What're _you_ supposed to be?"

Peter looked down at his black pants, black shirt, black shoes, and black cap. "Um, I'm a burglar!"

Harry, dressed as a Cowboy, gave Peter a mean look. "You don't look like a burglar. You just look dark. And in old man clothes."

Hurt, Peter touched the turtleneck and cap.

Silvie smiled at Harry, and Darrell the astronaut joined in, "You're not even in a costume!"

"Yes, I am!" Peter defended desperately. "I'm, I'm a burglar because I'm fast and could totally steal stuff in the dark—"

"You look dumb," Jessica, the hula dancer, said with a scowl at Peter's clothes.

Tears came to Peter's eyes as the other kids finished getting candy at his house. After getting their candy, they moved past Peter and laughed to each other. Their taunts echoed to him as he sadly marched up to the house everyone else had just visited.

An elderly woman squinted down at Peter.

"Trick-or-treat," Peter said, holding up his bag.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "You were just here with that group of children. You can't double-dip from me, boy."

Peter's face fell. "But I didn't get any!"

"Didn't your parents teach you not to lie?" The woman gave him a final scowl and shut the door in his face.

Heartbroken, Peter released his tears and trudged back to find his parents.

* * *

And while Peter had been chatting with his "friends," Erik took a threatening step towards Azazel and Emma. He noticed how Azazel held Emma's arm, ready to vanish at any time—closer to Erik's son.

"Leave. Now." Erik looked murderous.

Emma smoothly said, "We'll keep this brief." She looked to Charles. "And you can stop trying to enter our heads; you can't break my barrier."

Charles glared. "We don't want to fight you, Emma. Leave us in peace."

"We're here to deliver a message." She turned towards Erik. "Shaw wants to call a truce."

Erik's glare furrowed with confusion. He didn't know where to begin asking questions.

"Why?" Charles demanded for him.

"He wants you back on his side," Emma told Erik. She turned towards the other telepath. "And you, if you're willing."

"I would never work with that bastard," Erik spat through gritted teeth. "He _murdered_ my _family_!"

Emma gave an understanding nod. "He offers the invitation to your son as well."

That offer made Charles's and Erik's blood run cold. Blood seeped through that invitation—it was a threat.

"He will never touch my son!" Erik vowed angrily, lowly.

Emma's smile was polite and insincere. "If you reconsider, don't hesitate to let us know; we'll be seeing much more of each other."

Charles and Erik glared at the woman in response.

" _Auf wiedersehen_ ," she said with that smile, and the two vanished with a puff of red smoke.

Erik's hands were shaking. He could barely see straight with the undiluted rage pumping through his veins. He _hated_ Shaw; every fiber of his cells screamed it. Erik had never wanted another man to die more. And he had never felt so damn powerless in wishing it so.

Charles couldn't shake his own scowl, but he placed a comforting hand on Erik's arm. "You're not alone, my friend. What you feel right now—I feel it too."

Erik looked to his partner, seeing the firm belief in those blue eyes. Still, the scummy base of Erik's soul couldn't believe that Charles could understand what Erik currently felt.

A small hand slipped into Erik's.

Erik jerked his attention downwards—Peter stood silently next to his father, limply holding his full bag of candy. Peter stared at nothing in particular as he held his father's hand.

"On to the next house?" Charles asked the small boy, hoping to shift the thick mood. Erik tensed at the idea of continuing on in the vulnerable open.

"I wanna go home," Peter mumbled.

Charles gave him a concerned look, but Erik couldn't bring himself to question Peter's decision; he was too grateful for the willingness.

Erik picked his son up into his arms and relished in the firm feel of holding his living, breathing child. "Let's go home, then."

Charles gave Erik a look but followed as Erik led the way to where they'd parked, a couple of blocks away. Charles looked back to Peter as the boy rested his cheek on his father's shoulder. "Did you enjoy trick-or-treating, Peter?"

While Peter's expression didn't change from being mostly blank, he mumbled a "yeah" all the same.

Charles decided to let it go, opting to try this conversation again at a later date.

When the trio arrived back at the mansion, they were met with an unexpected houseguest.

"Surprise!" Raven grinned and held out her hands as the three walked into the kitchen. "And—" She snatched a witch hat off the island and tossed it on top of her head. "—Happy Halloween."

Peter's solemn mood brightened at the sight of his favorite aunt. "Raven!" He rushed forwards and hugged her legs.

She hugged him back before hefting him up onto her hip. "Whoa, kid. Have you grown? You're tall. Like, on track to being an NBA player."

Peter giggled at one of his favorite compliments.

"Good to see you, Raven," Charles greeted with an affectionate smile.

"Always," Erik added, his smile never quite reaching "affectionate."

"You, too, Charles," Raven said in return, giving Erik a knowing look.

"Wanna see all the candy I got?!" Peter eagerly asked his aunt.

"Absolutely!" She set down the boy, and he hurriedly dumped his pillowcase's contents across the island. "Wow!" Raven picked through the spread candy pieces. "This is pretty awesome. And I think I can use one of my witch spells do duplicate it. If you're willing to trust my magic."

Peter eagerly nodded.

Raven grinned. "Cover your eyes and count to ten—at a _normal_ pace, speedy."

Peter slapped his hands over his eyes. "One! Two! Three!"

As he counted, Raven grabbed her bucket of German candies off the floor and dumped the stash on top of Peter's display.

"Ten!" Peter stared with wide eyes at the doubled candy and then his aunt's twiddling fingers. He smiled. "That was awesome!"

"Happy Halloween to my favorite…" She squinted at Peter's costume, trying decide what he was supposed to be. "Little…" She looked up for help from the adults.

" _Burglar_ ," Charles mouthed to her, exaggerating the mouth movements.

"Burg… Lar." Raven finished with an easy smile for Peter.

Peter's eyes widened. "You think I looked like a burglar?"

"Yeah!" Raven tapped his hat and said, "Look at that cap! And your dark clothes! You've got the whole burglar thing nailed, buddy."

Erik gave her a disapproving look.

Raven caught it and added, "But definitely stick to imaginary burglarizing. For now."

Erik's look became a glare.

"Hey, I want to look through your candy," Raven quickly changed the subject. "And I can show you the German candies I got, and then I can help you get ready for bed."

"OK!" Peter enthusiastically agreed, forgetting all about his woes—and his parents.

"Thank you," Charles told her with a fond smile as he led the way out of the kitchen.

"Make sure you check it all over," Erik told her sternly, following the telepath at a slower pace. He snatched a piece of the German candy as he left.

Raven gave him an unimpressed look in response.

With a final grateful nod to her, Erik sought after his companion.

And he found him in their bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt. "Not the worst day," Charles announced. "Not the worst encounter with Shaw's minions."

Erik glared at nothing as he, too, began to undress. "I'd prefer these encounters to be nonexistent." And the best way to do that was to kill Shaw once and for all.

"It isn't yet worth the risk, Erik," Charles reminded him as he began to pull off his pants next. "Peter would never understand if something happened—"

"I wouldn't let it," Erik growled, yanking his sleeves off his arms. His shirt fell to the floor.

"You're not invincible!" Charles protested, his frustrated hands gripping at air. He faced Erik. "Would you like a reminder as to why you chose to live in this mansion in the first place—why you gave up seeking Shaw?"

Erik gritted his teeth. "They know where we are now."

Charles shook his head. "They know a general area."

Erik wheeled angrily on his friend. "I won't sit and wait to be attacked, Charles!"

"Then keep searching for allies! Continue strengthening yourself!" Charles gave a frustrated shake of his head. "Erik, if you were to charge after Shaw now, you wouldn't come back. And Peter would never understand it." Charles dropped his seething gaze to the carpet. "And I would never forgive it."

The metal rage coating Erik's heart began to loosen. He let himself breathe as the realization sank in: for better or for worse, Erik wasn't alone in this world anymore. He couldn't let his desires cloud his judgment. He had to think of those around him—Peter, _Charles_.

Erik's hand cupped Charles's cheek, causing the telepath to meet his gaze. "You're right. You always are."

Charles reached for Erik's arm. "You aren't alone."

"I know."

"And you don't have to stop your pursuit; just don't act like a bloody idiot."

Erik complied with a nod.

Charles reached for Erik's head and pulled him firmly down for a kiss. He then released him and sought off to search for his pajamas. "Put on some clothes. I'm eager to see Raven try to put Peter to bed after offering him mountains of candy."

With a fond smile, Erik slowly followed his partner's lead. He let himself relax and think of Peter and think of Charles.

Because he wasn't abandoning his retribution. He was strengthening it. Erik could only breathe by knowing that simple truth: it wasn't over.


End file.
